Avoiding the moyel's unkindest cut

Michael Nerenberg                                                           

My travel budget can generously be described as economy. I will gladly forgo the option of air for land, the a la carte menu for the daily special, and any starred hotel for a minimalist room, the better to explore and be part of my usual destination, the third world

I will, though, permit myself some indulgences, chief among which are good coffee and pure butter croissants. Rather than a full breakfast, I will often opt for a petit dejeuner that allows me my moment, however small, of luxuriation,

 Vilcabamba, Ecuador, boasted one cafe that served espresso, and one patisserie/cafe that had good croissants. My early mornings were usually spent at one of the two, or on the occasional splurge, both. The Beverley Hills Cafe served the espresso, and had three small outdoor tables whose proximity on the small patio begged some interaction between patrons. It offered the extra touches that invited loyalty, allowing regulars to become more than anonymous travel acquaintances.

Darryl and Lois were just such a couple.

Within a short time of their arrival in town, we had shared cream and sugar bowls often enough for polite nods and smiles to turn to introductions and conversation. They were in their early 60’s I guessed, and he had recently retired from a lifelong position in sales. Comfortably paunchy, he would not have been out of place on the beaches of Florida.

She was attractive still, her looks only modestly deferring to time, so that what might once have been a pleasant but unexceptional mien was now comparatively appealing.  Both were unceasingly sanguine and  middle-America pleasant.

Having been by now suitably forewarned of the unnerving social and political views of most visitors to Vilcabamba, a town of many myths in a country which demanded no vaccination, I deliberately avoided conversation beyond the trivial, especially since their accents pointed to a Southern background and I was beginning to quite like them.

My discretion would be of little use however, since Darryl volunteered his politics and allegiance to Trump with no prompting on my part. 

Increasingly, in these perilous times, I am forced to remember Voltaire’s observation that those who believe absurdities can easily commit atrocities, and my normal impulse would have been to point this out in no uncertain terms.

For one very rare moment, though, I found myself overlooking their politics in the face of their unwavering pleasantness, and was able to honestly point out, with neither sarcasm nor rancor, that I had never voluntarily shared a table with folks of their political persuasion. It was said in a manner that implied if our friendship were to continue, it would have to be without their politics being a part of it. They were in turn neither taken aback, nor noticeably offended, by that remark, and our relationship remained pleasant.

As for my political thoughts, normally found on my sleeve, this town had eroded my faith in the rational and the energy for  umbrage , I saw no point in attempting a further discussion with them (or any Trumpista for that matter), reminding myself once again of the adage that a rational person who argues with a fool is the bigger fool of the two. That they might comprehend their roles in enabling the quickly normalizing fascism in their country was so unlikely that, resignedly, beyond that first confession about sharing tables with Trumpers, I allowed myself to accept their  dangerously ingenuous natures without reproval.

Since I had, by that time, become acquainted with most of what the town had to offer, I was to become their go-to tourist guide, and translator when the odd situation dictated.

Several days after our first encounter, they asked if I knew of a good restaurant they might not have come across. As it happened, I had just eaten at a rare pearl of a seafood place on the edge of town, more frequented by locals than tourists.

“I can recommend an excellent seafood restaurant”, I was happy to offer. “Walking distance, and quite inexpensive.”“

“Oh, no, we don’t eat the abominations,” they offered vigorously.

Seafood as abominations is not something I hear very often. It is so Old Testament that few, including Jews, are likely to ever use the term as a reference to shrimp, crab or other finless or scaleless seafood. I wondered if they were some type of Christian literalists, and if my humour would be lost on them, but asked anyway, “Why, are you kosher?”,

Once again I was to be nonplussed, this time by their totally unexpected and serious response.

“Yes. We’re Jewish.”

The reader will pardon my Yiddish, but these two could not have been more goyish. One cannot totally explain these things, but please accept that there are certain traits beyond physiognomy that Jews generally sense as being associated with the tribe, and this couple exhibited none of them.

Accordingly, I could not resist the obvious comment,  “That’s funny. You don’t look Jewish.”

That one was lost on them, and without a pause, they explained to me that they were part of a Messianic sect, that they had converted from Christianity to Judaism, and now strictly followed the kosher laws. While there was a certain fascination on my part, I also found myself somewhat ruffled by this reverse apikorism.

For observant Jews, the messiah is not divine, but a temporal deliverer, essentially of the land of Eretz Israel to diasporic Jews. Furthermore, the conversion to Judaism involves far more than the appropriation of the symbols and customs. In fact outside of the faith proselytism itself is antithetical to the tenets of Judaism. I decided to have a little fun with my coffee.

“So you don’t eat milk with meat?” I asked, testing the waters.

“Never” they said, with the conviction of the newly righteous.

“And you go to synagogue on Saturday?” Again somewhat teasingly..

“Yes, we do.”

Now my curiosity  had been  sharply piqued, and I couldn’t resist what for a Jew is the obvious question.

Turning to Daryll I asked, “So did you get circumcised?”

For those who do not know of the significance, B’nai Brith, often translated as children of the covenant, literally means born of the circumcised, the circumcision being the covenant between Jews and God. One cannot be a Jew and uncircumcised beyond the eighth day after birth, unless for medical reasons.

His reply was this time a simple, though unapologetic “No.”

Now my cynicism came to the fore, as I tried to gently express reservations about his commitment  or at least  understanding of the broader implications of his “conversion.”.

First explaining the meaning of B’nai Brith, I pointed out that the pain of Judaism was not in the circumcision, but in the indelibility of the symbol. How throughout history, Jews could not hide their Jewishness in shower rooms, and how Nazis confirmed the identities of many a victim headed to the camps and ovens through the act of pulling down their pants to expose their heritage.

“You will always have the option of denying your Judaism, a luxury Jews born into the faith will not. You really should get circumcised to show your sincerity.” I added, more rib than taunt, but not without some conviction.

He was having none of that. His Messianic sect did not ordain that part of the deal, and as with most of unquestioning faithful, the ordainments were his only obligations.

 When he began to explain the role of Christ the Jew in his conversion, I firmly let him know I was having none of that.

“Get thee to a moyel.” I quipped, as good naturedly as I could, and after a brief explanation of the sarcasm and Shakespearean reference, left for a contemplative stroll.

A couple of days later, I again bumped into my fellow travelers, who greeted me with a notable effusion, and an invitation to hear about a recent event - one which had further fuelled their faith.

The day before, a Saturday, they had been awakened by “sweet angelic sounds”, voices singing tunes which sounded strikingly familiar to them. Leaning out of their hotel window, they were sure they recognized the distinct tunes associated with the liturgy of their  Messianic sect, and, dressing rapidly, followed the sounds to a small building only doors away from their hotel. Standing at the open doorway, they confirmed their ears, and entered the storefront church. There they were greeted by  four Ecuadorans in joyous chant who welcomed them at first reservedly, and then with great passion when they were able to join in the arcane service of their  “miraculously”shared affiliation.

They had been truly buoyant and “in his presence” since that improbable encounter in this small town in distant Ecuador, and were anxiously awaiting the opportunity to share it with me, and of course with their congregation in Texas.

. 

I could not rain on their parade, even if I had wanted to.  When great co-incidence befalls the superstitious,or religious, it is the ultimate cement in their irrational belief system.

I am not religious by any definition, and I certainly do not believe in miracles when coincidence, no matter how unlikely, can serve as an explanation But putting myself in their shoes,I could easily imagine the feelings of affirmation  and rapture of believers in such serendipitous circumstances.

And while I was not ready to convert, for a brief moment I admit to having been deeply jealous of the joy to be found in blind faith..